While our village’s team would not be playing, our village was selected as host site for the regional soccer championship. Everyone, including us, gathered at the shaded edges of the soccer field – truly a field, replete with bumps and edged on one long side by dozens and dozens of rags tied together to make a rudimentary, ropy fence. Our local friends called out loudly at various plays, shaking their heads and commenting on how they likely could have done better, despite not making it to the play-offs. Boys cheered the players on from branches in the trees, and little girls chased each other on the school lawn across the dusty road.
Next to the soccer field is a brand new cocina/kitchen for the village church. This 40-ft.x20-ft. building is constructed of concrete walls that extend half way up on two sides. Iron railings extend to the metal roof. The full back wall anchors the kitchen, where tiled counters have three deep squares cut in them, also tiled, that hold small wood fires under iron grates. A sink stands at one side to allow the cooks to throw kitchen scraps through the iron railings and into the nearby jungle. In front of the kitchen is a long counter for ordering food and casual loitering.
At the far end there is a small stage. In between the kitchen and stage are a dozen or so rustic tables and chairs, with the chairs, as in most restaurants here, about the size of those in an elementary school classroom. It is comical to see Pecos sit at one of these tables, knees up. The tables come just below our chins when seated at these little chairs.
During this past year, the 50 or so persons of our village got together and built this new kitchen, truly a point of pride for the community. The cost was $6,000 for materials and it was raised over several years. Local wages are $1.75-$2.50 per hour, thus the fundraising effort was significant.
Following the day’s soccer tournament, there would be bingo and a small theater production. We purchased bingo tickets a few days ahead of time for 500 colones (approx. $1) each. Grand prize would be the equivalent of $40. I hoped to win in order to turn the money back to the church.
Entering the cocina near the hour of bingo, the seats were already full and there was barely standing room. Every horizontal surface – floor, cooking area, grassy entrance – had a person patiently waiting with bingo cards ready. It looked as if every single person we’d met in Costa Rica had come. We turned in our bingo tickets and were given two very faded and frayed cardboard bingo cards.
One of the village men walked around dropping handfuls or dried corn in front of everyone; apparently, these were the bingo markers. A loud cheer went up when Francisco stepped up to the table on the stage, ready to call the first game. He held a battered, plastic bleach jug filled with metal chips. For each number, he’d rattle the jug loudly while everyone held their breath, and then he’d shake a chip out on the table.
“BAY OCHO!” Francisco shouted and the entire crowd yelled “OY!!!” in response, then silence as everyone studied their cards. B-8; so far, so good for me. Pecos was standing across the cocina, and I could see an elderly woman, her head barely up to his chest, point to his card for him and place a withered corn kernel on it. “EEE [QUATORZE? QUARENZIA? QUARANTE-SOMETHING-UNINTELLIGIBLE?]” shouted Francisco. “OY!” screamed the crowd. Oh lord, I was already lost. Was that forty-something? Fourteen? Or something-four? A smiling man who’d I seen walking a few villages over, elbowed my arm and pointed to I-34 on my card. Ah yes, triente-quattro.
More numbers, mas rapido, and soon I was completely lost. I pushed my bingo card over to the helpful man, whose elbows leaned on the kitchen counter nearly against mine. He smiled and placed a corn kernel on my card on whatever-was-that-number that Francisco had just called. The loud “Oy!”s continued through each number of each game – played just like bingo in the U.S. with the diagonals, the squares, the X, the four corners, the full card.
Each time a person won, he or she would simply jump on the nearest chair and wave wildly. Francisco would mumble something and the entire crowd would groan loudly. This was a serious game. Children played as attentively as their parents. My 10-year-old grand-daughter, sitting across the room in a group of Tico children, won 2nd prize – 10,000 colones ($20) which she later tried to give to her papa as she said “he works so hard, he deserves it.”
Then it was time for the theater production. A few sheets with holes and a worn blanket with faded rockets on it were clothes-pinned to a rope stretched in front of the stage. There was much commotion behind the makeshift curtains as the scene was set and much friendly visiting by the crowd who all stayed for the theater. Babies were passed around, person to person, like little footballs –cheerful wherever they landed.
A record began playing on an old turntable and the crowd hushed. The curtains were pulled back and two of the local students, about 14 years old, began dancing to flamenco music. The boy was dressed in a man’s suit that had its sleeves and pants rolled back. He wore a black paper mustache and a bolero tie and a dandy cap. The girl wore a long purple satin skirt, fishnet stockings, high heels and a lacy blouse. Her hair was pinned up and a long black feather was stuck in it. They danced elegantly and swiftly, back and forth across the stage floor and the crowd cheered loudly.
Wait! They weren’t dancing! This was a pantomime of flamenco – no actual dance steps, but rather, quick steps and pseudo-sweeps to the floor, to which the men blew whistles while the crowd cheered and applauded.
Now up on a chair, now sashaying back and forth, and then the grand finale where the young man pretended to swirl the girl in the air as she gracefully jumped up and over a chair. The music stopped, the performers bowed deeply and the crowd cheered wildly, nearly everyone had leapt to his or her feet.
The curtains closed and a few moments three little girls came out and bowed. The curtains opened and the three sat at a table, dressed in Sunday best with their lacy socks and shiny shoes dangling from the chairs. An older girl came out and poured tea, and the three little girls looked at the audience and giggled. Ah, this was a restaurant! Elegantly dressed waiters came out and the girls placed their orders and giggled some more.
At this point Pecos and I had to leave. It was getting dark and we had borrowed my son’s car that day. For this year, the ever-troublesome vehicle had only intermittent headlights – sometimes working and sometimes not.
We decided not to chance getting stuck on the winding road as we hadn’t brought flashlights. At two points between our casa and the village, there are creeks to cross where the road narrows considerably above the crumbling culverts, barely allowing all four wheels to touch ground at the same time.
Bingo and Theater
A Walk With Ta-li'
We made arrangements to stop by and visit Ta-li’, the village woodcarver, musician and holy man who leads the services at the Catholic church. When we arrived, Ta-li took us in his workshop and showed us some of his latest carvings – birds of prey, and a four-foot shrimp cut from a twisted vine, this latter piece to be sold to a restaurant in the city. His great-niece, three year old Alejandra, was visiting and proudly showed us a three-foot wooden doll Ta-li’ had carved, bearing pointed beak and raggedy clothes and named Pinocchio.
A four-foot wooden mortar and pestle carved from a tree trunk stood in a corner. Ta-li’ told us it belonged to his grandfather and that the family uses it to grind the coffee beans – ‘oro de grano’ or grains of gold – from their trees.
Ta-li asked us to take a walk with him. We hiked far into his finca over rolling hills and past his orchard of fruit trees grown on a few steep acres. The slopes were so steep that we had to hold onto trunks of the trees above us while catching a toe-hold below. Many of the tree trunks had been braided into intricate forms by Ta-li’ years ago.
Far below, we entered the dark jungle. Ta-li’ stepped briskly ahead and we walked gingerly behind him, watching for any sudden movement of slithering creature potentially aside or above us. Liana vines as thick as Pecos rose from jungle floor to the tall treetops, many bearing large flowers in red and yellow. Floral fragrances wafted through the dappled sunlight that broke through the thick flora. We climbed over thigh-high spreading bases of banyon trees and down dank ravines where we weren’t sure if we were stepping on spongy soil or layers of plants. We were sweating and panting and could hear water rushing ahead of us.
Ta-li’ kept up a springy pace ahead of us. We traveled a distance without speaking. This elderly man must be part mountain goat, I thought. Just then he turned around with a smile and said, “Si, soy como cabra de montana.” Mountain goat. I turned mystified to Pecos who confirmed that I hadn’t spoken aloud.
We hiked down yet another steep cliff where one slip could land one about fifty feet below. Finally, we reached the river Platanares that flows through Ta-li’s finca. Surrounded on both sides by dense jungle, we hiked along the river’s edge, jumping from rock to rock. Ta-li’ stopped suddenly, saying “algo.” Something. None of us moved for a few minutes and then Ta-li’ said, “serpiente” and moved forward. Vines dangled from tall tree tops to down over the water and the air was cool.
We came to a series of waterfalls that bounced over huge boulders bigger than us. We climbed upward and soon the river flattened out again. The jungle came to its edge and trees formed tunnels over the quiet pools of water. We clawed through vines at the edge and pushed on. Soon the river roared noisily ahead of us and soon we came to another series of waterfalls that rose about thirty feet.
On one of the boulders Ta-li’ had placed a wooden cross in cement. We rested on the rocks and he told us that he comes alone to this secluded place to meditate and pray. This place is pure life, he said, pointing to the waterfall that sprang from his land.
Mist from the waterfalls shimmered sparks of color in the air and the rushing clear waters formed chains of smaller waterfalls that linked together and ran over the rocks and around a bend in the river. A soft light seemed to glow around Ta-li’ as he stepped from rock to rock and I believed at that moment, and still, that he is a shaman.
Back at the house, Ta-li’s wife and daughter had sautéed platanos and made coffee for us. We sat with Ta-li’ and discussed medicinal plants in his garden and mine, describing flowers and foliage in our own languages and comparing our different names for chamomile, lavender, hyssop, soapwort, the balms.
I realize my long-ago herb farm in the Midwest with its few hundred varieties would seem inconsequential to Ta-li’, who had pointed out numerous vines, trees and plants in the plentiful jungle as we’d hiked, telling us the medicinal uses for each. His finca is more beautiful and rich with fauna than any national park I’ve ever visited in the U.S.
Puntarenas
We rented a car and traveled up the Pacific coast to explore the narrow peninsula of Puntarenas. This narrow strip of land juts out into the ocean and is the departure point for ferries to the Nicoya Peninsula, a tourist area known for its resorts and beaches.
From San Isidro de El General we crossed the coastal range to the town of Dominical, then turned north toward Quepos. We stopped at a rustic roadside stand shaded by cut banana leaves for cold paper cups of ceviche. The two small boys who sat on the coolers that comprised their stand leaped to their feet when we stopped and served us with big smiles. They counted the change carefully -- $1 for a cup of fresh minced fish, shrimp and calamari that was icy cold, swimming in acido (a perfumed citrus that puts lemon and lime to shame) and seasoned deliciously with garlic, cilantro and a touch of habanero. A few tortillas rounded out this lovely meal. For the next two days I insisted that Pecos stop at nearly every ceviche stand that we passed.
At Matapalo, we pulled in to the broad, shaded beach. A few Tico families were picnicking under the trees, about 15 people who apparently had traveled to the beach in the back of a panel truck. The rusty vehicle’s doors were open and the interior was packed with blankets and pillows. The tide was low and Pecos gathered shells while I played in the waves.
Heading north again, we came to the town of La Parita, a small center of commerce in the heart of palm plantations. As we neared the town, a few large carts laden with palm heads were pulled by oxen toward the oil processing plant. We stopped at the city park to stretch our legs. Parrots chattered noisily overhead, apparently responsible for giving this town its name.
We passed the fishing town of Quepos and then the tourist city of Jacos, winding north to the highway that leads west from San Jose to Puntarenas. Near Orotino we walked out onto the bridge, renowned for its views of alligators in the river below. It was extremely windy and I imagined being blown over the skinny, knee-high railing to the few dozen six-foot alligators who smacked their tails around as they waited patiently on the shore directly under us.
Five hours from home, we approached Puntarenas. Ten kilometers (six miles) long and three meters (10 feet) wide at its narrowest point, this rambling fishing town of a few thousand people was a jumble of tin-shacked homes and stores thrown up against each other and sometimes braced against twisty, weathered trees. The remains of wrecked fishing boats were everywhere.
Where the peninsula narrows to just the graveled road with ocean lapping on both shoulders, whichever driver entered most fast and ferociously has the right of way. I closed my eyes as Pecos wielded his ever-improving, wild Tico-driving skills. At the far end of Puntarenas, we drove through an attractive downtown and then arrived at a busy beach edged by 1950s-era hotels. We checked into La Tioga, rather expensive at $94 per night, taxes and breakfast included, a luxurious room with a balcony overlooking the beach and a magnificent view of the mountainous Nicoya Peninsula across the wide bay. Fishing boats plied the waters and the ferries carried vehicles and passengers far out to sea. Vendors and tiny restaurants lined the street alongside the beach.
We swam at the beach and had a most relaxing two days exploring the town. A beautiful stone cathedral with stained glass windows stood at one end of the city park and a cultural center at the other. We entered the center through a side door and found ourselves in the small municipal library. The director came over and for a while in his broken English and my infantile Espanol we compared library services in our countries. In Costa Rica, too, services are dependent upon graciones – private donations and grants.
From the library we entered the maritime museum. Exhibits included ancient pottery, 19th C. musical instruments, and wooden boats and fishing equipment depicting Puntarenas’s dependence upon the sea. A rehearsal was underway in a small auditorium; the actors were glad to see us and said that in two weeks they would perform [something, something, something en espanol] “sevilla” for the community. “Ah, si, ‘The Barber of Seville!’” I shouted and they all shouted back, “Si, si, si!” as they posed dramatically for several pictures and encouraged us to stay for the full rehearsal. The final area in the cultural center was an art gallery. Richly colored paintings by a local folk artist depicted the harvests of the sea, most unfortunately not for sale.
Along the beachfront, we meandered around the vendors’ stalls – all seemingly alike with wood carvings, shell art and colorful saris – and ate at the sodas (ceviche again). Independent businesspersons of all ages plied these little restaurants with various wares. A man carried a bunch of toothbrushes in his hand and extolled the virtues of brushing at each table as diners patiently looked away. Women carried lottery tickets (how would we know if we won?); children hawked shoelaces. One boy carried a large, fresh fish by its gills, eyeballs popping, table to table. A clown mime wandered by and gave a brief performance at our table; Pecos paid him 200 colones (40-cents). He bowed expansively and called persistently to all other nearby diners to follow our example, but he was ignored.
Heading south again we stopped at Playa Estrella – Star Beach – and stayed from mid-afternoon toward sunset. This most beautiful setting with its stone mermaid statue set far out in the sea is so tranquil; nearly deserted, the only sounds were the crashing of the waves and the occasional calls of scarlet macaws in the trees bending over the sandy beach.
We stopped again in La Parit, this time after after dark. Turning the corner near the park, the chattering of parrots was so loud that we couldn’t hear each other talk. We stepped out of the car and the din was almost unbearable. Noisy parrots filled the trees. Families strolled by, seemingly oblivious to the racket above them. We drove on to Dominical for a quiet evening before heading home to our mountaintop the next day, a place where the quiet is broken sometimes by clusters of colorful parrots that burst from the trees with their chippering conversations and then fly on to other locations.
One-Year Fiesta
Marcos and Maria have invited us to the fiesta for the first birthday of their son, Jorhan. This event is cause for great celebration in Costa Rica, Marcos tells us, as when one reaches their first year then the worry of infant death is over. He is insistent that we come.
We arrive at 4 p.m. along with dozens of other guests who walk over hills or along the road, coming from all directions. A few, like us, have brought gifts for Jorhan. We are all dressed in Sunday best.
Marcos’s father sees us right away and rushes over. He envelopes us in his strong arms, kisses my cheek and pounds Pecos’s back. He escorts us around the yard, introducing us to those we don’t know, and all the while he talks nonstop, telling us about his family and finca. We shake hands repeatedly and there are many “Mucho gustos!” all around.
Maria and Marcos have set up an altar at one side of the yard. The table is covered in white lace and fresh ferns and a nativity scene stands center. At each side there are candles and vases of huge flowers with colorful leaves and moss. A small framed photo of Jorhan is placed next to the infant Jesus. A plastic flag proclaiming “Vive Mexico!” sticks out from one of the vases. Marcos shows us each item on the table and we admire all of it.
Marcos’s uncle, Tio Tali, serves as priest, or perhaps he is a priest? He calls for the prayer and everyone gathers in the yard, either sitting on plastic chairs or standing. Little girls dressed in organdy and lace play tag with little boys dressed in their school uniforms of dark pants and white shirts. Mothers hold their babies. Men gather under nearby trees and the elderly sit on the porch.
A slender, unassuming man of nearly seventy years, Tali smiles gently and picks up his acoustic guitar. He is suddenly extremely animated, pounding out a song with deep rhythm on his guitar while singing in loud, rich tones. His entire body moves with each note as he rolls his shoulders and steps lively to his music. His guitar swings up and down as it plays to the grass, to the trees, to the sky.
When he is done, Marcos’s mother steps forward with a wooden rosary to recite a lengthy prayer. She pauses after each sentence or two, and everyone repeats what she has said. When she is done, Tali picks up his guitar again and sings “Ave Maria” solo. When the song ends, he repeats it again, this time joined by his two brothers – one on another guitar and one on accordion. For this repetition, everyone joins in, each person singing loudly.
Then it’s on to the next wooden bead on the rosary and the entire process is repeated. The rosary is passed among the women – first Marcos’s mother, then Maria’s mother, then each of Marcos’s six sisters.
Bead by bead, the prayers and music and songs follow the path of rosary. The sun sinks in the sky as the voices of the crowd and the guitars and accordion carry “Ave Maria” over and over down the mountain, surely heard great distances away. The service lasts more than an hour and a half. By the time it is over, Memo and I have learned the prayers and words to the song and join in. There is such a strong sense of family here that I am saddened that the lives of my family in the U.S. are so separate.
As soon as the service ends, older children bring out trays holding small paper cups filled with the drink that Marcos has told us is made solely for special occasions. There are several toasts to Jorhan, to his health and longevity, to his parents. The drink tastes like vanilla eggnog and it is laced strongly with liquor. Everyone has a cupful, from oldest relatives to youngest children. Jorhan is beloved by all and he is passed from person to person so that all can wish him well. He is cheerful with everyone, although shy with us.
Tali and his brothers pick up their instruments again and stand at one side of the porch to play lively tunes throughout the rest of the evening. A few people dance on the lawn, the children continue chasing around, and Marcos’s sisters bring out plates heavy with seasoned black beans, a rice mixture with chicken and vegetables, and salads of yuca and beets. Everything is delicious.
As we walk later to our finca, we can hear the music drifting over the hills, adding tranquility and depth to the dark and putting all night creatures to rest. We turn off our lights and walk by moonlight over the hills to home.
Bus Ride
That 110-lb. man with nerves of steel – our bus driver – seemed genuinely surprised and happy to see us again. All smiles, he greeted us heartily and shook our hands as he took our 700 colones for the bus ride to town. We’d hiked just over a mile to the village to catch the 1 p.m. bus to San Isidro.
Our village is at the top of the mountain and thus lies at the end of the bus line. The morning bus leaves for the city at 5:30 a.m. and returns here about noon. The driver pulls the bus to the side of the road and rests under a tree until 1 p.m. when it is time for the afternoon trip back to town. The bus leaves the city again at 5:50 p.m. for our route back up the mountains.
As the bus engine sputters and spurts to regain its strength for the return trip, adult and child vendors step aboard before departure to loudly cruise the aisle, selling zip-lock baggies of colored beverages, deep-fried plantains and chicaronnes (pork rinds). Our same driver steps aboard and shouts for them to leave, then wrenches the bus backward from the huge station. We will arrive back at the village at 7:30, already very dark since the sun sets at 6 p.m. each day .
Either way, morning or afternoon bus, we walk in the dark wearing headlamps to scan the road for snakes.
Two stops down, our former landlord, Luis, and two of his friends stepped aboard. Luis greeted me warmly – perhaps too warmly, depositing two sloppy kisses on each side of my lips – and, ignoring Pecos, asked me if Pecos was still my novio. Why yes, I said, thinking that the facts that the man travels to Costa Rica with me each year, that we’ve built a house together, and that here we were, shoulder-to-shoulder en bus should be evidence enough.
Our bus is still the 1950s-era, rusty school bus as last year. Our driver leans forward to wrench the steering wheel as he maneuvers hairpin turns. His soda bottle swings wildly on the wire above his head and he yells out, “Yo!” to everyone we pass. The bus grinds painstakingly slow uphill and rumbles wildly down the steep slopes just inches from treacherous drop-offs at the edges of the crumbling dirt road.
There are a few dozen stops en route to San Isidro. At each and every one Luis, lecherous as ever, leans far into the aisle to admire the women coming aboard or departing. In between these diversions he brags to me about his horse and his cows and all that he can offer.
I’m tempted to carry a chair and my computer to the high point of his empty rental house on sunny afternoons for a decent internet connection, but then again Luis is often there tending his many flowers. I would hate to distract the man from his work.
Rain
It rains nearly every day – very unusual for this time of year, we are told. This is the time of the first coffee harvest and most of the crop has been ruined. The second harvest takes place in about eight weeks and there is much hope that the entire year’s work will not be lost.
Mornings are sunny and then mid-day the clouds roll in and build through the afternoon. Rainstorms can be seen rolling our way across the valley below and we are quick to put things under cover. Sometimes it pours rain on one side of our house but not the other.
Hard rains thunder on our metal roof and we cannot hear each other without speaking loudly. Playing music is impossible. We haven’t experienced such rain before. We measure 4” overnight in the buckets – sometimes for a few nights in a row – one-fourth the annual rainfall in Fossil.
Pecos stays busy with a shovel, maintaining the shallow trenches that carry rainwater away from our house. This process is common as there are no gutters here. Our house perches inside a shallow moat all of three inches across. Wearing knee-high rubber boots, Pecos removes dams of sticks and leaves along the deeper, wider trenches by the driveway and up at the road. He is Michener’s Potato Brumbaugh, moving the waters of Costa Rica rather than Colorado.
Neighbor
We have two beautiful mango trees growing near our house, gifts from Jesus, the ancient man who is our closest neighbor. We stopped by his place to say hello, but for once he didn’t come out as we approached on the road.
Later villagers told us that he is in a place for the elderly, several kilometers away, as his legs have given out. Aside from missing the primitive home he’s lived in for decades, Jesus may have found that he enjoys being around people, which is something he didn’t have all that often before.
Whenever we’d walk by, he’d rush out and talk nonstop at his fence for several minutes, keeping up a steady stream of solo conversation, all in Spanish as we nodded our heads and tried to insert a word here and there. There is no certainty to Jesus’s return home. We hope he is content.
Arrival
A few days ago we arrived safely at the little village of Aguas Buenas, and another season in Costa Rica has begun for us! We are so happy to be here and in many ways it seems as if we’d never left. It doesn’t take long to fall into the gentle rhythm of this beautiful place.
Arriving at the Santa Maria International Airport after the overnight flight, we quickly took a taxi across San Jose –winding through narrow, tin-shacked alleys – to the main bus station. What luck! A bus would leave for San Isidro de El General, three hours away, in 20 minutes.
As we neared San Isidro, workers with heavy equipment were busy clearing away a mudslide that had covered the highway. A long line of vehicles was stopped in both directions. Looking up from our bus windows, the mountainside had been scraped clean and uprooted trees were strewn here and there, balancing precariously on the bare slopes. It was windy and we watched as branches blew and uprooted trees shifted position on the steep mountainside high above us. We were thankful when 20 minutes later we were again on our way.
The vehicle of my son, The Kid, had been left in San Isidro for us. We stopped only to purchase a few groceries and continued on our way. As we wound our way up the mountains to the village, people called out greetings as we passed: Bienvenido! Welcome! We marveled at new blacktop that now covered a short but previously-treacherous graveled stretch of road and admired the many flowers in bloom.
At last, we arrived at our finca!
Our caretaker Marcos has planted a vegetable garden and our fruit trees. All are thriving. He and his wife Maria planted a bed of two dozen roses, now in full bloom, as a housewarming present for us. The herbs I planted last year have grown more in one season than my several-year perennials in Oregon.
Iridescent green and blue hummingbirds stay busy in our flower beds all day. Toucans, as yet unseen, whistle in our trees in the afternoons. Hawks circle overhead calling “scree” in long, slow notes and at night an owl near the house calls “wah-wooh” over and over. About mid-day thin clouds slowly roll in over the slopes above us and engulf our mountainside, giving a gentle haze to the vista for an hour or two.
Construction on our new home had been delayed due to torrential rains in recent months, but no matter, it is livable and we can work around the final construction. This lovely place is mango-colored with terra-cotta tile inside and out on our outside living room/patio, and has more windows than walls – all jalousied and arched at the top like the doors. Decorative glass double-doors swing out from kitchen and living room areas to the patio. We have indoor plumbing and- unlike most Tico houses - hot water in the shower.
The roof rises to 15-ft and is suspended on posts about two feet above the walls, where wrought iron scrolls edge the entire house. They remind me of waves or musical scales, just right for La Musica de la Montana. We had expected only a sink in the kitchen, but workers had also built makeshift counters and covered them with slabs of cement, perfectly suitable for now.
During the day, our doors swing wide and we live in our open-air house. At night, we close the doors and windows tight, more for an illusion of safety than anything else, as the area above the walls is unfinished and open to creatures that slither, crawl or climb the walls or the wood posts that support our patio.
We’d just gone to bed on our first night here, when suddenly a noise came from under the sink. Pecos grabbed his machete kept next to the bed and, most fearsome in his underwear and skinny legs, took a few hesitant steps in that direction. I aimed the flashlight toward the kitchen. Something was thrashing inside the plastic bag that held other bags, knocking it around on the floor as it tried to kick its way out.
Pecos tiptoed closer, telling me to stay back as he brandished his machete. I edged toward the door and estimated how many jumps it would take for me to open it and leap out. Suddenly a moth the size of a hummingbird flew up from the bag and fluttered around the kitchen. Its patterned brown wings whooshed like paper as we shoo-ed it outside.
Having braved the wilds on our first night here, each evening since has become much less worrisome. In a week or two, or perhaps four or five, our casa will be enclosed and we will sleep snugly and securely.